


The Fatal Flaw

by ifwewerevillains



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28434093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifwewerevillains/pseuds/ifwewerevillains
Summary: The Secret History, told from the point of view of an OC. First few chapters are setting the scene, content will become mature and will contain warnings as and when.
Relationships: Camilla Macaulay/OC, Henry Winter/OC
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Prologue

**June, 1982**

Isabel watched the bumblebee flail in the water, watched the ripples spill away from its panicked wings in little concentric circles. She supposed she could’ve helped it out but I was rather settled on the warm stone steps of the house and didn’t feel much like moving. It was strange that there was water at all- it was coming up to the end of June and the air was hot. It must have rained in the night.

It wasn’t until half-way through his sentence that she realised Francis was speaking. She turned slowly to see him leant against the stone pillar, his green robe hanging loosely off his shoulder. He was slurring his speech already. 

”Henry says we’ll take the boat out as soon as you’re ready.”

A half hour later and she was sat on the stern of the boat, trailing her fingers through the water as Henry rowed. It would have been heavenly had he not been providing a running commentary as he did so, pointing out every plant we passed and trying to recall their latin nomenclature. He could’ve been making it all up for all his passengers knew, but it wasn’t welcomed either way. Isabel was glad she decided against her book; it would’ve been difficult to concentrate.

”Will you be going back to New York for the summer, Bel?” Francis asked, raising his voice pointedly enough over Henry’s musing that the latter fell silent. He hadn’t changed out of his robe and had sprawled quite dramatically over the bow of the boat. The whole picture was ridiculous, really. 

“London, I think,” she replied, resting my chin on my arm. “Evelyn’s got her performance in July.”

“Don’t suppose you could make room for one more?” he said, in a light-hearted enough manner that she could’ve said no and have him pass it off as a joke. She knew that he was serious, though.

She smiled. “It’s very high-brow. You’ll love it.”

We both fell quiet after this and continued to float across the lake, the sun getting hotter all the while. Henry took the silence as a sign to resume his commentary, which was made slightly more tolerable by the looks Francis shot her from over Henry’s shoulder.

We moored under a willow tree for shade. Francis had packed a basket of musty blankets and tinned fruit, which was a nice gesture but left us stabbing at the cans with sharp stones as he’d forgotten any sort of instrument to open them with. 

Isabel’s contribution was a hip flask of cranberry vodka she’d kept in the pocket of her dress. The pocket in question could, if necessary, conceal a wine bottle, which was the only reason she’d bought it, really. 

They’d spent the majority of the summer in this way- drowsing about Francis’s aunt’s summer house in a slightly intoxicated manner. Be it croquet matches or lakeside picnics, the six of them had made the most of the warm weather and lack of school work, and it had resulted in a very pleasant few weeks. Now, propped against a willow tree with the sun beating against my neck and the alcohol making its way through their bodies, they felt as calm as they’d ever been. This would be a lovely way to waste away a lifetime. 

“Settle something for me, Bells,” Francis said, after we’d finished the lacklustre picnic and made our way through the vodka. He was reclined lazily on the blanket, propped up on his elbows and gazing up into the sky. “Give us a kiss.”

It took her a good few moments to realise he wasn’t kidding. Despite this, whether it be the buzz of the alcohol or the good mood the sun had put her in, she smiled at the request and leant over willingly, gently cupping his jaw in her hand and giving him the kiss he’d requested. Cranberry and nicotine.

”I think I may just be gay,” he said, after she’d pulled back. 

“I‘ll try not to take it to heart,” she said, leaning back against the tree. This wasn’t at all a surprise to her.

Up until this point Henry had been quietly musing over a book he’d brought with him, but at this he looked up.

”That’s hardly a fair evaluation,” he said.

Francis shrugged. “I’ve kissed Camilla. I had to make sure it wasn’t just her.”

”You’ve kissed Camilla?” Isabel said, curious. “Kept that quiet.”

”Purely scientific,” he replied, leaning back onto his elbows. “I think that’s the lot of you, now. Apart from Bunny, of course.”

”Yes, I can’t imagine that going well,” Isabel said, thinking back to the snide remarks he’d made in the past regarding Francis. “Marion doesn’t speak too highly of his technique anyway.”

”You brushed over that my confession very quickly there, Bells,” he laughed. “Other than him, the five of us have pretty much covered all possible combinations.”

She looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. “One of those combinations should very much not have been the case, but I suppose so.”

”Ah, I never had siblings. Maybe if we had a twin we’d understand.”

Henry and Isabel both looked at him with concern. “I would hope not.”

“If you won’t give your brother a go, I will,” he replied, looking at Isabel. “Not the lawyer, obviously.”

She frowned. “What’s wrong with Oliver? And be careful what you say because I’ve always been told we look quite similar.”

Francis pulled a face and began to mimic the way Isabel’s eldest brother spoke, dragging out every other word. “I just feel as though Property Law is so under _appreciated_ in the field. It’s _riveting_ when you get past the initial obstacles.”

Henry gave a small chuckle. “He does sound like that.”

She turned on him. “You’re no George Carlin.”

He frowned. “Maybe that was an insult, but I’ve never heard of him so he can’t be all that admirable.”

”You hadn’t heard of Margaret Thatcher, so your concept of fame is worthless.”

”She’s not in charge here, doesn’t matter.”

”Alexander the Great isn’t ‘in charge’ here and you care an awful lot about him,” she retorted.

Henry scowled. “Alexander was a pioneer and achieved more by twenty-five than you could ever hope to.”

“Oh, are you on a first-name basis with him now?”

”We’re here because Bunny and Charles wouldn’t shut up, why should I have to listen to the two of you bickering?” Francis moaned. He was reclining now, one hand lain dramatically across his forehead, looking very sorry for himself.

Isabel rolled her eyes. “Yes, Oliver’s a little obsessed with his work but he’s also engaged, which should be the dealbreaker. And please let’s never talk about my siblings like that again.”

”We hadn’t even got to Archie yet,” he replied, propping himself up on his elbow. “He’s the one I’d pick.”

Isabel grimaced. “Oh, I’m glad this conversation hasn’t stopped.”

”Relax, it’s entirely theoretical. Henry, what about you?”

Henry didn’t look up from the book he’d resumed reading. “I’ve only met Oliver.”

”Him, then?”

He shrugged. “Suppose.”

Isabel frowned, indignant. “If this is a question of which Van der Woodsen sibling you’re the most attracted to surely I’m an option?”

”My answer hasn’t changed,” said Francis. Henry said nothing.

”Brilliant,” Isabel said, taking another drink. “Guess I’ll be bridesmaid.”

Upon their return to the house, the bumblebee had stopped flailing and lay still in the centre of the puddle.


	2. Aphrodite

**September, 1982**

The day Isabel first met Richard was a rainy one, and her thoughts were solely occupied with worry that her hair would look a wreck on arrival. She seemed to be the only one with a concern for her appearance of the six, soon to be seven, of them, but she took pride in looking her best and certainly didn’t want Richard’s first impression of her to be all frizzy roots and mascara transfer on her eyelids. As a precaution she’d slipped a mirror into her coat pocket, and upon finding Julian’s office spent a few moments correcting the damage the drizzle had caused. The eyeliner was a little worse for wear but she was fairly satisfied with the overall look, so slipped the mirror back into her coat and knocked on the door.

“Come in!”

The room itself was lovely. Mismatched armchairs, the smell of coffee and shelves of books gave the impression of a small bookshop or cafe; a world away from the classroom setup of my previous classes. An old chandelier, small enough so as not to appear ostentatious, emitted a warm yellow light around the room, which flickered and danced over the strange objects scattered on every surface; a porcelain bust of a woman on one side, a teapot on another. She had, of course, spent the last year tucked away in here with the rest of the Greek class, but arriving back in the office after a summer away was hugely comforting.

“Miss Van der Woodsen. Do join us,” Julian said. He had a kind smile and a warm voice, with his arm extended towards her, beckoning for her to meet him at his desk. Standing next to him was Richard Papen.

“Richard, meet our Aphrodite. Isabel Van der Woodsen.” 

He clasped her hand between his, holding it tightly rather than shaking it. “I got lumped with Hermes,” he said under his breath. “Nice to meet you, though.”

It was at this point Henry entered the room, clearing his throat pointedly. In true Henry Winter fashion, he was clad in a stiff woollen suit and stood in the doorframe looking stony. 

“Yes, Mr Papen, meet Henry. He’ll be taking this class alongside you,” Julian said, a broad grin forming on his face,

“Hello,” Richard said, quietly. He stepped forward and took Henry’s hand, returning the greeting in a low voice.

“Henry Winter,” he replied, not smiling but continuing to stare intently. 

“Henry here is my Zeus,” Julian said, lightheartedly. Henry raised his eyebrow a little at this.

“Do you cast all of your students as Greek deities upon meeting them?” Richard asked, turning back to face Julian. He smiled.

“We each find ourselves in one of them. I find it amusing to make my predictions early on. Purely on surface level, of course.

“We try not to let that get to our heads,” Isabel said, pointing her comment towards Henry. His stone cold demeanour broke for a second.

“Other that the three of you I’m waiting on four,” Julian said, breaking Isabel’s gaze away from Henry. “A pair of twins in that mix, Richard. Apollo and Artemis, you’ll get along with them splendidly.”

”It looks as though your cast is coming together nicely,” Richard said. Julian let out a lovely warm laugh.

Francis Abernathy was very sullen upon entry, walking into the office with his collar turned up to his cheekbones and his shoes tapping loudly on the floor. He looked a little like an illustration of Sherlock Holmes, but with flaming red hair that made Isabel’s look a dull brown in comparison.

”Francis,” he announced, turning down his collar and looking directly at Richard. “Pleasure to see you again.”

He shook Richard’s hand, then Henry’s, then sat down in an armchair and waited for the others whilst Richard explained how they’d met in the library. 

The twins arrived with Bunny. The former were friendly enough but Bunny kept up a startlingly energetic stream of chatter throughout, shaking the hands of them all in turn excitedly and addressing Julian as if they’d never been apart. 

***

The six of them, after being dismissed from Julian’s office, had decided to go to the bar on the edge of campus that evening. They’d sat at a booth for the first few hours, before Isabel had dragged Richard outside for a smoke, whispering that she’d had enough of the others for a while.

Isabel lit a cigarette in her mouth and took a drag before passing it to him. It was quite outside and the night was cold, but Richard’s jacket was covering both of their knees.

“Bunny’s a dick, isn’t he?” Isabel said, exhaling. 

Richard laughed. “I like him.”

She frowned. “Give it a week.”

“How do you get Bunny from Edmund anyway?” Richard said, passing the cigarette back. “Teddy, maybe.”

She shrugged. “Call him that. Just to be petty. I come up with a new variation most weeks. Welsh Rarebit was a stretch but I enjoyed it thoroughly.” 

I turned to face her, trying to stifle a laugh. “Alright.” 

“What do you think of the rest of them?” she asked. “You can say what you like about them, I don’t mind. I’ll have said worse.”

“They all seem like fun to me,” Richard said, truthfully. “You share a lot of mannerisms.”

She nodded. “We spent most of last year inseparable.”

They paused for a moment, looking up into the sky. 

“I like Francis,” Richard continued. “He takes himself less seriously than the others.”

”When you say others, do you mean Henry?”

”I- uh, yes. He is a little intense,” Richard said, aware that he had only just met them and reluctant to cause a problem.

“He is odd, isn’t he,” Isabel said, oblivious to his unease. “A genius, but odd.”

”Where did he get that scar?” Richard asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Oh, he got into an accident as a child,” she replied. “I wouldn’t bring it up.”

“I can’t imagine him a child” he replied. “Some people just look as though they emerged fully-grown.”

“Cut out of Cronus’s head,” she mused, staring up into the sky. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Richard said. “Who brings a copy of the Iliad to the bar?”

They both began to laugh at this, the image of the bartender looking him up and down in confusion entering Richard’s mind. Even without the book he stood out; whilst the general student population were wearing neon trousers and windbreakers he had arrived in a suit, complete with a dark grey tie and thick woollen overcoat.

“He’s so  serious. Did he need to translate the menu into Greek?”

Isabel giggled. “You’ll have to get used to things like that. He’s brilliant, though, so we tolerate it.”

It was quite for a moment. The two students passed the cigarette back and forth, shivering a little in the night air. 

“He’s got nice hair,” Isabel said suddenly. “I think about that a lot. I’ve been cursed with a large forehead myself.”

She pulled back the curtain fringe that sat just over her eyebrows to demonstrate. “See? I’m learning to accept it.”

“Your forehead’s normal,” Richard said, furrowing his brow. “You’re lovely.”

She grinned. “As are you, my darling.”


	3. Archibald Corcoran

**December, 1982**

Isabel was sitting cross-legged in the library of Francis’s aunt’s house. She had opted to sit leaning against the sofa rather than on it because Bunny had previously been sprawled over the cushions, leaving no space for her, but had left to meet Charles in the village and she was quite content to stay put. The rug was soft underneath her and the room pleasantly warm.

She was getting to the part of her novel where the plot began to get quite predictable. Having read it twice before this was no surprise, but she felt as though rereading the grand reveal was quite pointless so closed the book in her lap, sighing. She glanced over at the piano, considering playing, but a sound in the corridor caught her attention instead.

“Henry, it’s good to see you, old boy!” Isabel frowned, not recognising the voice, and put her book down, curious. 

“Yes, to you too, sir,” Henry said, mumbling slightly. Isabel opened the door and smiled immediately; in the arms of a man she didn’t recognise was a sleeping baby.

She must’ve gasped or caught their attention somehow because both the man and Henry turned to look at her. Henry introduced them to each other, but had Isabel not been told he was Bunny’s father she thought she might’ve guessed anyway. His grin and stature were very similar.

“Isabel,” he repeated. “Well, aren’t you lovely. Bunny here?”

She shook her head. “No, sir, he’s gone to meet Charles. Can I help you at all?”

“Take this,” he said, passing the baby to her with alarming urgency. “Henry, take my coat, will you?”

As soon as she was holding the baby, though, she grinned. He had woken up but wasn’t crying at all, rather he was smiling sleepily up at her with Bunny’s green eyes. She rocked him slightly and he giggled; a beautiful, sunny laugh that melted her heart.

“Oh, he’s lovely,” she gushed, making a face at him. He giggled again. 

“Could you keep him out of my hair for a moment, doll?” Bunny’s father said, adjusting his cufflinks. “I need a drink.”

“Oh, of course,” Isabel said, absentmindedly. She was fixated on the baby, who was clutching the air. She stuck my finger out and he wrapped his hand around it. She almost wanted to squeal with how adorable it was.

“Keep an eye on that one, Henry, she’s a keeper.” Mr Corcoran clapped him on the shoulder and walked off towards the kitchen, whistling something. Henry’s discomfort made her laugh a little.

“He’s right, I am,” she said, heading back into the library. She realised as she sat down that she didn’t know what the baby was called. She tilted my head and considered.

“He looks like an Archie, don’t you think?” she mused, not sure if Henry had followed her or whether she was talking to myself. A quick glance around told her it was the latter; Henry had disappeared.

Isabel smiled. “Just you and me, then, Archie.” 

***

Mr. Corcoran, after cleaning out the cupboards of the house for a ‘light snack’, had left in a hurry to the nearby town, promising he’d be back shortly to collect his nephew. Two hours had passed and he was still nowhere to be seen. The baby had begun to get quite restless, so Isabel and Henry walked him down to the lake, where he sat quite happily hitting pebbles together. It was pleasantly warm considering the season. 

“I refuse to believe I was ever this irritating,” Henry complained, watching the baby with narrowed eyes. “It’s not even in time.”

“I can believe it. If how you are now is anything to go by,” Isabel replied.

Henry clearly objected to this. “God, I just try to mind my own business.”

“Yes, imagine how bad it’d be if you didn’t.”

”I’m not taking any criticism from the girl who plays _Bucks Fizz_ records at seven in the morning.”

“You need cheering up, you take yourself far too seriously.” 

“And you need to take yourself far more seriously,” he replied, but with a small smile.

”Where’s the fun in that?”

They fell quiet for a moment, both watching the baby. He’d gotten tired of the pebbles and was now tugging at loose threads in the picnic blanket, much to Henry’s distaste.

”I don’t understand why people do it,” he muttered, turning back to his book. 

“You really are miserable to be around,” Isabel said, reaching over to pick up the child. “Look him in the eye and tell me he’s not the most perfect thing.”

She held up the baby, who reached out to grab Henry’s glasses in his fist. Henry flinched and in doing so the glasses fell off into the baby’s lap, much to his delight.

”He’s not,” Henry said, frowning, but he didn’t snatch the glasses back. “He looks far too much like Bunny for my liking.”

”That’s unlikely to be an issue for you, though,” Isabel replied. “Unless you use his sperm and get a surrogate..?”

”I’m not interested in Bunny,” he said gruffly. “That joke gets funnier every time.”

”Then the baby wouldn’t get any of your genes. That sounds alright to me,” she continued, grinning. “One Henry Winter is enough.”

Henry prised his glasses out of the baby’s hands and put them back on, returning to his book with a sigh. When the baby began to protest Isabel propped him up on her lab and let him twist his fingers around her hair as a distraction. 

“You’d be a good mum,” Henry said, after a moment. Isabel smiled.

”I don’t know about that,” she replied. “Babies are fine, they’re practically dolls. I can’t imagine looking after a _child_.”

“How else would you spend sixty years?”

”Bold of you to assume I’ll live that long.”

Henry shrugged. “You’re probably right. As soon as my brain starts ageing that’s it, really.”

“Yes, you’ve not got anything else going for you.”

”Alright, you can tone down the verbal abuse.”

Isabel frowned. “I’m not wrong though. Do you really plan to wither away studying Greek forever?”

Heney nodded. “Suppose so. But not just Greek.”

“Oh, yes, because adding Latin into the mix is really living life to the fullest.”

”But what is living, really? We’re all just passing the time.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

Henry turned to look at her. “Am I wrong?”

Isanel shrugged. “You could try to make a mark on the world. Like the ancient playwrights and architects. They’ve left something for us to study, it wasn’t all in vain.”

”I don’t think I’ve got much to offer in that way,” Henry said, matter-of-factly. Isabel shook her head.

”That’s not true.”

”I don’t have the physical talent they all did.”

”Then teach.”

”Couldn’t.”

She rolled her eyes. “Alright. Sounds like you’ve made your mind up.”

”Soon you’ll find there comes a time for that.”

Isabel sat up, surprised. “Did you just... quote Bucks Fizz?”

”I did.”

She grinned. “God, maybe you’re not so miserable after all.”

”You’re rubbing off on me.”

The sky had darkened whilst they were sat there, and suddenly the sound of thunder rumbled in the distance. Henry looked up- the clouds were swirling dramatically above.

”Better head back,” he said. On cue, the first raindrops fell, hitting the leaves of the tree above them.


	4. Cherry Pie

**January, 1983**

The winter months were spent at Francis’s aunt’s house. Charles and Isabel would make ice-creams floats in the mornings and eat them on the freezing cold porch, not for any practical reason but because it made them laugh. Camilla taught them all every card game she knew, coming out on top nine times out out ten, whilst Charles excelled at chess. Francis, Isabel and Richard shared an interest in mystery novels and spent many evenings trying to piece together the crimes as they read, Francis often proposing outlandish ideas that turned out to be almost correct. Bunny kept a steady supply of records on the turntable and they all danced to swing music together, whilst Henry kept completely to himself, studying all sorts of obscure languages in a corner of the library. They must’ve spent more time there than at school, wasting away their time in a very comfortable haze, more often that not alcohol-induced.

Henry had been thinking about his conversation with Isabel. Whilst he had come to accept that life would merely pass by, he was considering more and more the idea of making a mark on the world, or at least doing something of significance, to be studied or admired in the circle of classics students in years to come. Writing academic papers and niche translations was all very well, but as time wore on he began to formulate a new idea.

It was late one night in January, and Richard had gone out to the cinema. The rest of the Greek class were sat in the library of the country house, in varying levels of sobriety, listening to an old jazz album Isabel had found in the back of a wardrobe upstairs. It was slightly warped but the distortion went mostly unnoticed amongst the already discordant music.

”I want to conduct a Bacchanal,” Henry announced, sitting up straight. Francis turned half-heartedly to look at him.

”A drugged-up sex party. Sounds good.”

Henry sighed. “No, a proper Bacchanal. We’re capable of it, I’m sure we are.”

”You’re not serious?” Charles said. “Julian told us about what happened to the people he knew that tried it.”

“They weren’t prepared,” Henry insisted. “We’re smarter than them.”

“But these _are_ fundamentally sex rituals, aren't they?” Francis continued. It came out not as a question but as a statement. Henry didn't blink, but sat waiting for Francis to continue.

  
“Well? Aren't they?”

  
Henry leaned over to rest his cigarette in the ashtray. “Of course,” he said, trying to sound as agreeable as possible. “You know that as well as I do.”

  
They sat looking at each other for a moment.

  
“What exactly are you planning to do?” Francis said.

  
“Well, really, I think we needn't go into that now,” he said smoothly. “There is a certain carnal element to the proceedings but the phenomenon is basically spiritual in nature.”

Bunny rolled his eyes. “If you’re trying to seduce me, this isn’t how to do it.”

”It’s not just about sex. We could be the ones to see Dionysus.”

“It won’t work. No-one’s been able to for two thousand years,” Camilla said, without looking up from her book.

”No-one’s put in the necessary planning,” Henry continued. “I’ve been researching everything that’s gone wrong in the past. We just have to take it far more seriously.”

”Sounds like fun,” Francis said, lying back down.

Henry frowned. He had expected them to jump at the idea; they were, after all, each studying Greek out of curiosity for the ancient civilisation. And they’d engaged in this sort of behaviour before.

”How about I tell you what I’ve been researching? You’ll see that I know what I’m doing.”

Charles stood up, picking up a few of the empty glasses by his feet. “Bullshit. I need a drink.”

_***  
  
_

“You’re not the slightest bit curious as to who Dionysus is?” Henry asked, finding Isabel alone in the kitchen later that day. He had decided to approach them individually.

She was startled; she had assumed she was alone.   
  


“You were right about leaving my mark on the world,” he continued, oblivious to her alarm. “And what better way to do so than to continue the legacy of the civilisation that our world is built upon?”

Isabel turned to face him. “I was thinking you would consider getting a real job, not conduct a sex ritual.”

”Everyone’s far too focused on that part,” Henry grumbled. “We’re Greek students. This is what we should be doing. Expanding our knowledge by experiencing it first-hand.”

”Jesus, Henry, it’s not a field trip.”

”Come on, Bel. Even if nothing really happens it’ll be an experience.”

She frowned, folding her arms. “People have gone mad trying. Julian’s friend was hospitalised after jumping off that cliff, remember?”

”It was hardly a cliff. He’s prone to exaggeration,” Henry replied.

”Forget it.”

Henry sighed as Isabel turned back to her baking. He watched her pour a can of cherries into a pastry-lined dish and place it into the oven, closing the door with a slam. 

“Everyone else is on board,” he said, hoping that she was too busy with the pie to notice his lie. 

“Charles agreed to it?” she asked.

Henry nodded. “He came around.”

“Then he’s as mad as you are.”

“It’ll allow us to stop being ourselves, even for just a little while. To escape the cognitive mode of being.”

”I like being myself. The cognitive mode of being suits me just fine.”

”I thought you liked mysteries.”

Isabel stopped still. She did have a penchant for that genre of novel and film.

Sensing that he’d made a breakthrough, Henry continued. “And this, really, is the biggest mystery of them all. These deities that we have such curiosity for, who are they really? And what was it that the ancient Greeks could do and become that no-one had been able to discover all this time?”

Isabel considered this. “It’d be nice to be the one with the secret, for once.”

”So you’ll think about it?” Henry said, smiling one of his rare smiles.

She picked up the spoon she’d been using and licked the cherry juice off of it, considering his offer. “I’ll think about it.”


	5. The Bacchanal

Three days later and the six of them were on board. They spent every evening together, once Richard had gone to bed, pouring over every detail in order to get it exactly right. There were many texts on the matter but they were still rather vague about the logistics of the whole thing. It was possible, with a great deal of work, to figure out some of the sacred rituals – the hymns, the sacred objects, what to wear and do and say. More difficult was the mystery itself: how did one propel oneself into such a state, what was the catalyst?

Over the next few weeks they tried everything. They mixed spirits together, took small dosages of drugs Henry had extracted from plants that grew in the woods nearby, and tried prayer. To no avail; the most that happened was that the six of them passed out in the woods one night. They had come very close to being caught by Richard on several occasions, but mostly banked on the fact that he wasn’t the most observant of people.

“Laurel leaves,” Charles suggested one day, flicking through an old apothecary log Henry had found. “Hemlock branches, too.”

So they tried once more, dressing up in their chitons and breathing in the fumes of the burning foliage, but they merely woke up the next day with nasty coughs. 

“We’ve really got nothing to go on,” a frustrated Francis said one evening, collapsing onto the sofa. “There’s nothing else documented.”

Hnery sighed. “I suppose we should try something of a cleanse.”

The others looked around, both confused by this and a little irritated that it’d come so far to no avail. Camilla, however, nodded.

”To receive the mystery, one has to be in a state of cultic purity.”

”Yes,” replied Henry. “That is at the very centre of the Bacchic mystery. Plato speaks of it.”

”Oh, screw Plato,” Bunny said crossly. “Can’t we just drink comfortably? We’ve wasted so much good liquor on passing out in the woods.”

”What do you suggest, Henry?” Camilla said, ignoring Bunny. “To ensure the mortal self is a clean as possible.”

“Fasting,” came the reply. Bunny rolled his eyes. 

“Fuck that. You’re mad.”

***

Richard was becoming more and more difficult to avoid. After one very close call, during which he had come downstairs just as the others had returned from the woods, Isabel suggested they invite him to join.

”We hardly know him,” Henry frowned. 

“You may not, I think I do well enough.”

”Well enough to invite him to join a Bacchic cult? I’m still not sure I know you lot well enough for this,” Francis said.

”It’s hardly a cult,” Henry replied. “I just don’t think it’s worth the risk of him panicking and doing something stupid.”

”It’s not as though we’re doing anything wrong,” Charles said. Francis raised an eyebrow.

”I don’t know about that,” he said. “Cults and ritual drug taking are generally frowned upon.”

“It’s not a cult,” Henry said, frustrated. “Besides, he’s not going to find out, so we don’t need to be having this conversation.”

“It’d be a lot less tiresome if we didn’t have to sneak around everywhere,” Isabel grumbled. Reluctantly, though, she agreed to put telling him on hold until they had another close call. Only then, Henry assured, will I think about it.

***

The fasting seemed to be working. They were closer than they’d ever been, and every day counted; already it was terribly cold, and if it snowed, which it might have any day, they’d have had to wait till spring. Henry especially couldn't bear the thought that, after everything they’d done, it’d be ruined at the last minute. And if anyone were to be responsible for that it’d be Bunny, who was getting more and more argumentative and reluctant.

When in the woods and in the motions of an attempt, he'd start to tell some joke and ruin everything. During the day he’d grumble constantly about his hangovers and hunger pains, which made Henry more and more nervous. And then, on the afternoon of the night itself, Charles saw him in Commons having a grilled cheese sandwich and a milkshake. That did it, and they decided to slip away without him. It was a Thursday and Richard was out at dinner, so there was no time to lose.

“These bedsheets are useless,” Isabel complained. They had found a spot in the woods just outside of the country house and the sun had long since set, leaving the night freezing cold.

”They're not supposed to keep you warm,” Henry said. “Now be quiet.”

They each took a goblet from Henry’s bag and he poured the first drink. Once they had each filled their glasses, Henry stepped forward and recited the first hymn.

_For some say, at Dracanum; and some, on windy Icarus; and some, in Naxos, O Heaven-born, Insewn; and others by the deep-eddying river Alpheus that pregnant Semele bare you to Zeus the thunder-lover._

_And others yet, lord, say you were born in Thebes; but all these lie. The Father of men and gods gave you birth remote from men and secretly from white-armed Hera._

They lifted their glasses and drank in unison, this being the first thing other than water to pass their lips for thirty-six hours.

”And now, the hemlock,” he continued, striking a match and holding it high in the air. Camilla took the branch in her hand and lifted it to meet the flame, setting the leaves alight. The green fumes spiralled into the air and she lowered the branch into the centre of they circle they’d formed, letting each of the five inhale the smoke deeply. She cleared her throat and began to recite.

_I begin to sing of ivy-crowned Dionysus, the loud-crying god, splendid son of Zeus and glorious Semele. The rich-haired Nymphs received him in their bosoms from the lord his father and fostered and nurtured him carefully in the dells of Nysa, where by the will of his father he grew up in a sweet-smelling cave, being reckoned among the immortals. But when the goddesses had brought him up, a god oft hymned, then began he to wander continually through the woody coombes, thickly wreathed with ivy and laurel. And the Nymphs followed in his train with him for their leader; and the boundless forest was filled with their outcry._

_And so hail to you, Dionysus, god of abundant clusters! Grant that we may come again rejoicing to this season, and from that season onwards for many a year._

“Hail Dionysus,” the others chanted, as the last of the hemlock crumbled into charred ashes. 


	6. Ophelia

**January, 1983**

She didn’t think she even came close to dying. She intended to give it a go- she found a mossy rock to lie down on and had mostly accepted the fact that she was unlikely to make it to morning, but despite the chemicals searing through her and the water lapping around her as the sun rose, she remained perfectly alive the whole time. She felt inclined to say it was a shame- she was very curious as to what it would’ve entailed, but then again it was her birthday coming up and she didn’t really want to miss that. 

She mulled a few things over as she lay there, letting the water brush against her ankles. She hoped that whoever found her would think it rather romantic- she fancied that her damp hair likened her to the little mermaid, or some pre-raphaelite muse. She was also hoping that her sheet would be draped nicely around her, as it could either enhance the image or cling in all sorts of unfortunate places. As you can imagine, her mind was working overtime but she really couldn’t bring herself to move. She would simply have to accept that the way she had fallen down was how she would be found and hope that it was somewhat graceful. 

God, it was hours before Henry arrived. Isabel didn’t recall much, but spent a great deal of time thinking about how lovely it would have been to be alive hundreds of years ago. They didn’t paint like they used to- she missed her opportunity to be an artist’s muse and drape herself on mossy rocks for a living. Somewhere along the way she considered the little theoretical physics she’d learnt in her last year of high school. Here, on this rock, half-asleep and as high as a kite, it all seemed to make more sense. 

Henry was furious on the drive home. Isabel remembered his face darkening and all sorts of frustrations, but she didn’t feel like speaking at all and simply let him simmer. There was a moment he must’ve thought she’d died, and it was nice to see he was concerned, but he noticed her eyes following him fairly quickly and resorted to irritation rather than any sort of relief. She brought this up later.

“When you noticed I wasn’t in fact dead were you at all relieved? Or would you have rather it played out differently?”

He responded to this without looking up. “Everyone else managed to stay put.”

She had walked off, yes. She’d felt a strong desire to find water and wandered for a while before she’d found her lake. She remembered swimming about, or at least wading in and letting the water spill over her arms. She was bleeding a little from the rituals and let the red spiral into the blue, watching the colour ripple and eventually vanish. She didn’t know how long she stood there, but at some point she must’ve turned back, maybe intending to find the others, but had collapsed onto the rocky shore and left herself to die. All rather dramatic in retrospect. 

Now they were sat in the country house, Isabel sat on Francis’s bed whilst Henry busied himself with an old first aid kit. He was still irritated, but it was hard for her to really believe it when he was offering to patch up her grazed knees. 

“You could have drowned,” he said, turning to hand her an unlabelled bottle. She barely hesitated before drinking it- with all the things she’d inhaled and consumed in the last twelve hours she wasn’t in a position to be fussy about what she put in my body. 

“Like Ophelia,” she mused. “Did I look like her at all?”

Henry sighed. He considered saying something but opted for a simple nod.

”That’s good,” she said. “Where are the others?”

”At the twins’ apartment,” he replied, twisting the cap back onto the bottle. “I think we’re done here.”

”Thank you,” Isabel said, swinging her legs against the bed. “What shall we do now?”

”You can go to sleep,” Henry replied gruffly. “Get everything out of your system.”

”I like them being in my system. I feel nice.”

He smiled, turning away so she wouldn’t see. “Sleep. I’ll be downstairs.”

When he’d closed the door, Isabel sat up straight. It really did seem an awful waste of whatever it was in her system that had put her in such a good mood to ‘sleep it off’. A quick glance at the room’s shelves showed that there was nothing interesting to read, so she stood up and walked across the hall to the room Henry usually slept in.

She hadn’t yet changed out of the damp chitons, only removed the outer layer. Humming to herself, she opened up the oak-panelled wardrobe and flicked through the shirts hanging up there. Henry certainly had a signature look, but she found something of her taste and quickly got changed. Running her fingers through her hair to smooth it down she walked downstairs, guessing she’d find what she was looking for in the library. 

She did.

“Henry,” she said, circling her foot on the floorboard and trying to make her voice sound as sweet as possible. He barely looked up.

“Isabel,” he replied, his voice completely monotone, with the air of addressing a colleague as you passed them in the street. She frowned. 

He was reading a thick, leather-bound book, frowning as he did so with his sleeves rolled up and his heavy glasses balanced on the end of his nose. He had the appearance of an elderly librarian, yet somehow she was wildly attracted to it.

“Henry, could you come with me a second?” she progressed, lightly brushing her fingers along his shoulder. He sighed and marked his page with a piece of paper. He always hated how she dog-eared her books and made an effort to replace them with whatever he could find; ticket stubs, scraps of paper, tissues. It was naive of him to assume she’d stop but it was nice to build up a collection of keepsakes from his efforts. The tissues she could mostly do without. 

He stood up and looked at her disapprovingly. Isabel bit her lip in what she hoped was an attractive way but imagined, in retrospect, that looked quite unnatural. 

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he commented. He was right. She’d paired it with Camilla’s knee socks, which she thought looked quite nice. He didn’t seem to mind this, though. In fact, he smiled. 

“I think you’re a little drunk. But go on.” He beckoned for her to lead the way and she walked back up to the bedroom he’d left her in, hoping that some wave of inspiration would hit her along the way because she was beginning to lose her nerve.

Upon entry, she fluttered her eyelashes a little and trailed her toes in circles on the floor. 

“Could you close the door?” she asked, sweetly. Up until now it had been difficult to read him but at this he rolled his eyes. 

“I’m not going to have sex with you, Bells.”

She pouted. “Why not?”

He almost laughed. “Because you’re drunk, Isabel, and besides, I told myself we were friends and that’s all. We should keep it that way.”

“Keep it that way why? Because you have no further interest or because you think it’ll make things difficult?”

“You know it’ll make things difficult.”

“Doesn’t have to. If you want, it can be a no emotions attached deal. I promise that I will never ever have any feelings towards you other than friendly respect and sexual desire.” With this she held her hand to her heart solemnly. 

He reached for her hand and dropped it to her side, grinning. “You’re being silly. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Oh, and you’d know?”

He frowned. “Besides, I’m not doing this when you’re... high. Drunk, both. It’s taking advantage.”

Isabel rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s very clear to us both I’m initiating this.”

“You wouldn’t do it sober.”

She scoffed. “No, you’re right. Normally I find you repulsive.”

He looked at her with a mix of amusement and frustration. “Reconsider in the morning and let me know,” he said, and gave her a kiss on the forehead before leaving. She sank, bewildered, into the bed. She tried to piece together what on earth he was insinuating, but eventually buried herself in the duvet and drifted off, cursing herself for the embarrassment she’d no doubt caused.


	7. Sunday Morning

January, 1983

The first few seconds after waking up are always strange. Isabel lay there for a moment, trying to remember anything that would help her orientate herself. Even after sitting up it took her a moment to recognise the room she was in.

The next thing to occur normally would be a sudden rush of memories, but none came. She sat still, clutching the white duvet with her fists, trying to run through the events freshest in her mind. All that was coming back was Henry driving them all up to the house. This was strange- she didn’t remember drinking, which would be the simplest explanation for failing to recall the evening before.

Mulling it over still, she stood up and walked over to the mirror next to the room’s wardrobe. The reflection that stared back at her was flushed pink and dazed, with rumpled auburn hair falling in limp curls over bare shoulders and slightly drowsy eyes. She flicked her hair back, noticing with a jolt the long scratches that ran across her shoulders. She took a step backwards and examined the rest of her torso, which was lightly bruised but relatively unscathed. She frowned, trying to consider what would’ve caused the scratches. 

There was a thud from downstairs, which sounded like nothing more than a door closing but made Isabel jump. For the first time since waking she considered that the others may be in the house still. She attempted to smooth down the creases in Henry’s shirt and walked downstairs, nervous that her mind was still blank.

Henry was sat on the armchair by the window of the library, head in a book. Isabel suddenly became aware of the rain drumming against the glass panes, which she was sure hadn’t been the case upstairs, but looked far too torrential to have picked up in the last thirty seconds. Shaking her head slightly to dislodge the thought, she opened her mouth to call his attention, the sudden dryness in her throat suggesting she hadn’t spoken for a while.

”Hello,” she said hoarsely, her voice low. Henry’s head turned quickly and he snapped the book shut as he did so. His face quickly settled into a frown.

”Jesus Christ.”

He stood up and put the book down on the armchair, and Isabel thought he might walked over, but he made no such movement. Instead, he stood still, staring straight at her.

”No, it’s me,” Isabel said, smiling weakly. Henry sighed, pressing his fingertips against his temple.

”Not funny,” he replied, but his voice had softened. He stood in silence for a moment, struggling with what to say first.

”It’s _Sunday_.”

Isabel recoiled slightly. She was sure it had been Thursday they’d driven up. How could she not remember anything from the last two days? “God, no wonder I’m hungry.”

”There’s coffee,” Henry replied. “But... how do you feel? Are you alright?”

”Is there food?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t eat breakfast.”

”I never understood that.”

Henry frowned. “Do you feel okay? How’s your head?”

“Fine. I feel like I’m missing something, though, where is everyone?”

“Hampden,” Henry replied. “Sorry we couldn’t all be here to greet you.”

He sounded a little bitter. Isabel sat down on the faded green sofa next to her and, out of force of habit, began to pick at the loose threads on the decorative cushions. 

“Was it Thursday we drove up here?”

“Yes.”

Isabel frowned. That confirmed it, then. She tried to picture herself in the various rooms of the house, hoping it’d trigger some recollection, but her mind remained blank. 

“What do you remember?” Henry asked suddenly, walking over to sit on the chair across from her. “After arriving, that is.”

”I don’t.”

”What, at all?”

Isabel shook her head. “I didn’t take something, did I?”

Henry scoffed. “More than something. We performed the Bacchanal.”

“We did?”

”Not only that,” Henry said. He paused, with very uncharacteristic dramatic flair. “It worked.”

Isabel sat up straight. “It did?”

“It did,” he said, his face softening. “It was heart-shaking. Glorious. Wolves howling around us and a bull bellowing in the dark. The river ran white. It was like a film in fast motion, the moon waxing and waning, clouds rushing across the sky. Vines grew from the ground so fast they twined up the trees like snakes; seasons passing in the wink of an eye, entire years for all I know…”

”I mean, three days maximum,” she replied.

“We think of phenomenal change as being the very essence of time, when it's not at all,” he continued. “Time is something which defies spring and winter, birth and decay, the good and the bad, indifferently. Something changeless and joyous and absolutely indestructible. Duality ceases to exist; there is no ego, no "I," and yet it's not at all like those horrid comparisons one sometimes hears in Eastern religions, the self being a drop of water swallowed by the ocean of the universe. It's more as if the universe expands to fill the boundaries of the self. You have no idea how pallid the workday boundaries of ordinary existence seem, after such an ecstasy. It was like being a baby. I couldn't remember my name. The soles of my feet are cut to pieces.”

Isabel sat listening to this patiently, watching Henry grow more and more excited as he recounted the events. None of it was stirring up any sort of recollection, but it was interesting nonetheless.

”You ran off, of course,” he concluded. “You don’t remember that?”

“I remember water,” she said, quietly. Henry’s mention of the ocean had triggered something in her mind. A sunrise reflecting on the water.

”The lake at the bottom of the hill,” he nodded. 

“You found me in the morning?” 

Henry frowned. “Yes.”

Something wasn’t sitting quite right. Isabel tried to pinpoint what it was that was bugging her, other than the loss of memory. 

“Where’s everyone else, by the way?” she said, brushing the thought to one side.

“They’re all waiting for us at the twins’. Have been since Friday morning.”

”You didn’t go?”

”How could I? You could’ve woken up any time.” He stood up and adjusted his collar, turning to the door. “I should go. Stay here and... well. Recover, I guess.”

”I’ll come with you.”

Henry reached out his hand to stop her getting up. ”I don’t think that’s necessary. I’ll be back soon.”

“Alright,” she said, quietly. And then he was gone, leaving Isabel unsure as to whether he was angry or relived for her.


End file.
